Gone Like the Wind
by Dreamer for lyf
Summary: REPOST! What if Pony died instead of Johnny? Might be a cryer, depends on how soft ya are. May be a one shot, I'm not sure. R


**W/C: MAYBE a one shot…. I have no clue. Well, what would of happen if instead of Johnny dying in the fire – PonyBoy did. Told in Soda's POV. This idea just popped in comp class and that's were Im writing this now. Enjoy**

**Disclaimer: ya know I don't own any of The Outsiders characters. Those belong to S.E Hinton, man…**

We all stared down at his grave wearing shocked faces filled with complete sorrow. He left so silently, so quietly, none of us heard it coming. Of course we knew that he was gone. Of course we knew he was mad, but we all expected him to come home at some time. Come home unharmed and with that look on his face. A look of regret that he wore when he ran – ran from us. But now, the only look on his face is a pale look of despair, staring off into the distance.

It's a horrible thing, the death of a loved one. You get so used to their presence, and then they are just gone; eliminated from your life. Yet the memories still replay and replay for you to mourn over.

There would be no more nights, were we would wake up to his crying and find him sobbing by my side. He would tell us of a nightmare, that nightmare, that he would have once in a while and he could never remember it. Usually, my arm would scare away the pain that thrived in his frightened soul. But, there would be no more of those nights.

There would be no more moments of joy or jubilant times. No more periods of angst or despair. They are all gone, gone like your last breath.

A single tear rolled down my cheek and I continued to gaze down at the gray stone that marked where he lay. I never expected him to die so young. He didn't deserve to perish so soon. He still had so much more to accomplish, so much more to say to the world. He was different, different than all of us. And now, the only difference is that he has left, and how shocking the feeling is.

Like I said, you get so used to them being there. I will wake up nights, look to my side and for a sickening moment, forget he is gone and see him missing. I will spring up with surprise, then in a terrified manner look around me. And then, the thought will strike me like a deadly dagger. He has left – and he's not coming home.

He won't be coming home late, welcomed by hollers of concern. He won't be coming home from an exhausting day of track, and flop down on the couch. He won't be coming home with a smile on his face, from a fun time out. He just won't be coming, not any time soon.

The sunset painted the landscape with bright, valid colors. He always loved sunsets. He would gaze at them, dream away into the distance. He would always see something in everything, no matter how small or powerful. He believed in this world, and all he got back from it was a slap in the face.

I looked up at the sun; its bright orange exterior burned my pupils. I looked down at his grave again, and saw his face in my mind. I imaged his brownish, reddish hair. His hair looked just like mine, only darker. Mine was sort of wheat brown, or golden. I can't remember how he described it to me once.

I closed my eyes and another tear rolled down. It slowly ran down my reddened cheek. I had cried so many days. I didn't expect him to leave so soon. **He didn't deserve to die**.

Then, a calm, soothing wind blew at my face. It wasn't rough, but it was relaxing. I opened my eyes and felt my cheeks get dried off from the gust. I then imagined him as the wind, coming back in its form and brushing my eyes, drying my tears. He was silently telling me to be strong, to continue living, like I had told him so many times. I stood up and looked at the others. I wonder if they felt the wind to, or at least thought of it the way I imaged it. They just continued to stare down at his tomb.

Then, the wind ceased and faded into the air, like a wave in on the shore. That moment, I knew for sure he was the wind, reminding me in his supernatural way to remember the living. He was gone, just like the wind. But I would remember him…

W.C: I love doing these types of stories. They are so sad, but so fun to write. Not fun – just – oh never mind. Well, please read and review! I dunno if it's a one shot…


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